


Maybe We Can Get On Track

by torakowalski



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bus Sex, Coulson Lives, Desk Sex, M/M, Makeup Sex, Pilot Episode spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How are you here?” Phil asks, eyes roaming all over Clint’s face, his chest, his folded arms.</p><p>“How are you <i>alive</i>?” Clint snaps back at him and that stops Phil in his tracks.</p><p>“I-” he says then hesitates.  “I recovered.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe We Can Get On Track

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Maybe We Can Get On Track (Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1477150) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



> So I've seen Agents of SHIELD 1x01 three times now and loved it more each time and then this sprung into my head.
> 
> With huge thanks to CityofPaperBuildings for super-speedy readthrough.

Clint hears light footsteps bouncing up the stairs, dress shoes tapping, and his heart feels like it stops, then starts, then _clenches_.

It hurts.

This had seemed like a great idea when he was convincing Melinda to smuggle him onboard, but now it’s too late and he realises that he’s fucking terrified.

The door swings open and forget about Clint’s heart, his whole body just stops working. He sits down hard on the desk he’d been standing in front of.

Phil doesn’t notice. Phil’s looking down at the file in his hands, mouth turned up slightly at one corner like something’s amusing. He looks good. He looks strong and alive and Clint makes a sound in the back of his throat that he sure as shit didn’t mean to make.

Phil’s head snaps up.

“Clint,” he says, after a long pause where his mouth just hangs open.

Clint folds his arms across his chest, but it’s more to keep himself together than defensive. He expected Phil to shout at him, to demand to know what he’s doing here when Phil’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t want him here, anywhere.

He wasn’t expecting the lost look in Phil’s eyes or the way he’s all stunned and still kind of lit-up at the same time.

Clint licks his lips, tries to talk. Nothing happens. He swallows, tries again. “Coulson,” he says. 

Phil drops his paperwork on the floor. It isn’t his hands going slack with shock, it’s been too long for that, it’s more like he just doesn’t care about them anymore, not now he’s seen Clint.

Clint shakes his head at nothing. Phil wasn’t supposed to be glad to see him.

“Clint,” Phil says again then crosses the room in three strides. He reaches out to touch Clint’s arm but Clint flinches, hard, and shifts back across the desk. He wishes he hadn’t sat down. Now he feels trapped.

Phil lets his hand hover, obviously wanting to touch, letting Clint _see_ how obviously he wants to touch.

“How are you here?” Phil asks, eyes roaming all over Clint’s face, his chest, his folded arms.

“How are you _alive_?” Clint snaps back at him and that stops Phil in his tracks.

“I-” he says then hesitates. “I recovered.” 

“That’s not a fucking answer.” Clint didn’t know he was going to be this angry. He knew he was going to be angry, sure, but he didn’t know it would feel like this. His insides are swirling, hot and tight, and he wants to lash out, but he can’t, doesn’t.

“I don’t have a better one,” Phil shouts back then his eyes widen. “I don’t have an answer,” he says helplessly.

Clint’s anger doesn’t fizzle, it just sort of jumps in his chest, explodes, gone. He hears himself make a frustrated noise then he slumps. 

“Do you have an answer for why you didn’t tell me?” he asks and watches as Phil flinches.

“Director Fury thought it would be better if the Avengers continued to believe I was - ”

“Fuck the fucking Avengers,” Clint tells him, eloquently, he thinks. “I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about - ” me “- us. Nat and Sitwell and all the people who, who care about you.”

“You?” Phil asks, which fuck him, it’s not like he doesn’t know how Clint feels. Felt.

“Yes, me,” Clint snaps. “We bought an apartment and then you just, you just left me there, with all this fucking space I didn’t need and your stupid comicbooks in every box I tried to unpack and I - ” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and tries to pretend he’s stone. Or better yet, to pretend he’s Natasha.

“Clint,” Phil says again, and this time, Clint lets him curl a hand around Clint’s wrist, lets him hold on. “I’m sorry.”

Clint lowers his hands. “Why though?”

Phil shakes his head. “You weren’t the only one who was lied to. Fury told me you’d been lost to Loki. It was the only reason I agreed to stay in Tahiti for as long as I did.”

“Tahiti?” Clint asks dubiously. SHIELD doesn’t even have the budget to send agents to recuperate in Tabasco let alone Tahiti.

“It’s a magical place,” Phil says, tone going flat, and oh, something is not right here. 

“Phil?” Clint asks.

“I missed you every second of every day,” Phil tells him. “I wanted to throw everything away and come find you, but Fury said you were doing fine, and what we’re doing here is important so I waited. I’m sorry if I waited too long.”

Clint wants to ask _Fury said I was doing fine?_ because boy has Clint not been doing fine. But he doesn’t want Phil to know that, so he stays quiet.

“You waited too long,” he says instead and watches Phil’s face fall. Fuck, Clint hates Phil’s face. He hates how Agent Coulson never gives anything away but Phil lets people know when he’s happy or disappointed or geekily excited about something he found in Midtown Comics.

Well, maybe Clint doesn’t usually hate it, but he hates it right now.

He also hates Phil’s stupid blue eyes and the lines around his mouth and the beginnings of the stubble on his top lip. He hates everything about Phil that means he’s alive and he’s been walking around _not being with Clint_ for god, months now.

Clint finally finds the strength to tear his wrist out of Phil’s hold. He tries to get up, to push past Phil, but Phil doesn’t back up and Clint finds he can’t push him, not matter how angry he is. He saw the footage and now he can’t look at Phil’s white shirt without seeing it soaked through with blood.

They wind up chest to chest, Clint just about keeping his balance despite having no real room to put his feet, Phil breathing hard and meeting his eyes and looking so sad and stubborn all combined.

Clint makes a frustrated noise and grabs the front of Phil’s jacket, hands fisting in the lapels. “I hate you so much,” he says.

“That’s a shame, because I love you,” Phil says, like that’s an okay thing to say when someone’s as furious with you as Clint is with him. Like it’s okay to love someone and then leave them and - 

“I’m going to punch you in the face,” Clint tells him seriously.

Phil’s arms come up and wrap around Clint’s waist, drawing him in so he can stand between Phil’s slightly spread legs. “That’s okay, I deserve it,” Phil says.

“No, seriously, I’m seriously going to do that.” Clint can’t think. Phil smells like old cologne and old sweat and gunpowder. Clint loosens his grip on Phil’s lapels then grabs them harder, vindictively pleased when they crumple.

“I said it’s okay,” Phil reminds him. He doesn’t kiss Clint. Clint only realises he was expecting him to when he doesn’t. Clint hates that he’s disappointed, hates that Phil’s leaving it to him to decide, hates that he is deciding, that he’s tilting his head and moving in close, that he’s pressing his mouth to Phil’s, even though Phil doesn’t deserve it, Phil is a bastard.

Phil bites down on Clint’s bottom lip and Clint’s whole world stops for a second.

Then he drops down onto the desk and pulls Phil along with him, kissing him deep and hard and painful, shoving Phil’s jacket off his shoulders and dragging it down his arms. 

Phil kisses back just as hard, letting Clint strip him, letting Clint tear at his tie and pop buttons on his shirt and he doesn’t say _stop_ or _we’re on a flying bus right now_ or even _my whole team of sickeningly adorable ducklings are just downstairs_.

He just lets Clint kiss him like that’s more important than anything else.

Clint’s head lands on something hard, which he realises is a laptop, and he goes to sit up, to move it out the way, but Phil just pushes it until it slides god knows where, landing with a bump somewhere out of the way and fuck that’s hot. That shouldn’t be hot but it’s so hot.

Phil sucks on Clint’s tongue, pushing at the bottom of Clint’s sweatshirt, shoving it up his chest until it gets stuck under his arms. He stops with a frustrated sound against Clint’s bottom lip and then his hands are on Clint’s chest, warm and rough, the way they always used to be, not smoothed out from six months’ R&R in Tahiti or whatever actually happened.

“Phil,” Clint groans, when Phil’s hands shift up, cupping his pecs and just holding, Clint’s nipples getting hard and achy against his palms, wanting to be touched.

“Shh,” Phil murmurs. He kisses Clint again and again, Clint flat on his back on the desk and Phil looming over him. The angle can’t be comfortable, but there’s no strain on Phil’s face, well not that kind of strain. He has the expression of a guy who’s rock hard in his pants and not sure what he’s allowed to do about it and some part of Clint wants to leave him like that, wants to beg Phil to get him off and then leave him hanging.

He knows Phil would, is the thing. Phil’s the most generous guy Clint’s ever taken to bed, and he’d understand if Clint wanted to punish him. But that’s not what Clint wants. Clint wants Phil coming to pieces on top of him or underneath him or, shit, Clint wants Phil coming to pieces inside him.

“If you have lube, I will suddenly find it so much easier to forgive you,” Clint says, arching when that makes Phil press closer, the bulge in his pants an inch to the left of the hard line of Clint’s dick.

Phil stops, holding himself up and looking down at Clint. He’s flushed and there’s sweat all over his skin, sheening his chest where Clint’s gotten him down to his undershirt. “Simmons probably has some,” he says. “If that’s what it takes, I’ll ask her.”

He looks honestly serious and Clint doesn’t know if he’d actually go through with it, but he’s Phil so he probably would and he’d probably keep a straight face the whole time.

“No,” Clint says. He doesn’t say _I don’t want you that far away_ but that’s what he means. He’s still at least forty percent sure that Phil isn’t really here. “No, we’ll work something out.”

“Whatever you want,” Phil says and Clint just has to shut him up, _has to_. He bites Phil’s lip the way Phil did to him earlier. Phil kisses him back, gentling it for the first time, soft kisses around Clint’s mouth rather than like, trying to eat him up the way he was before.

Clint doesn’t want gentle. Clint’s pretty sure that he’s going to do something really humiliating if Phil’s nice to him. He lets go of Phil’s clothes for the first time in a long time and shoves his hand down between them, finding the space between Phil’s legs and squeezing his balls.

Phil gasps and rips the front of Clint’s pants open, hands warm and steady in Clint’s underwear, pulling his dick out, squeezing and fondling like he’s missed having his hands on Clint as much as Clint’s missed having those hands on him.

“Shit, sir,” Clint groans. He freezes, he didn’t mean to say that. _Sir_ started to mean something different after they started sleeping together and he’s not sure what it means now.

“Clint,” Phil says, sounding broken.

Clint turns his head away, can’t do this like that, wants fast, desperate angry sex, can’t deal with Phil still being in love with him, with how much he still loves Phil.

Phil drops down onto his knees in front of the desk and presses his face into Clint’s crotch. His mouth is soft and gentle on Clint’s dick, lips around the head, a hum in the back of his throat.

Clint curls his hands into fists and concentrates on breathing, on flexing his hips up toward Phil’s mouth, on Phil’s hands on the V of his groin.

It takes longer than it normally would, even though Clint started off so keyed up. He keeps getting distracted by the realisation that he’s with _Phil_ and the shock of it jolts him backwards from the edge.

“Would you like something else?” Phil asks, low against Clint’s thigh. “I guess I’m out of practice.”

“No.” Clint finally unclenches his hands and experiments with sliding fingers through Phil’s hair. “No, that’s good.” He moans when Phil sucks him down again and forces himself to focus, to think about now, to think about the warm, soft inside of Phil’s mouth.

“That’s good,” he says again, and then again, and then his mouth is moving and he has no idea what he’s saying. “I want you to fuck me, I wish you could fuck me. I want you to fuck me in every room in the stupid, fuck-off plane.”

Phil chokes, makes a noise that’s definitely positive.

Clint can feel his orgasm rushing up now, getting closer. “I saw Lola downstairs. I missed her. Fury said I couldn’t have her. He said, fuck that’s good, he said you left her to him but I knew, I knew you’d, you’d… We never did fuck in her.”

Phil presses his tongue to exactly the right place, right against the tip of Clint’s cock, so good it hurts, and Clint comes, maybe not the best orgasm he’s ever had, but the best since Phil ‘died’.

He’s exhausted afterwards, sunk down into the debris on the desk, muscles twitching. Phil rests his head against Clint’s thigh and Clint’s half-aware that he’s jerking himself off, but he can’t get up the energy to help.

He strokes his fingers through Phil’s hair, over the smooth skin of Phil’s forehead, letting his thumb trace the path of Phil’s nose, the tickle of his eyelashes. He pushes two fingers into Phil’s mouth and Phil bites down hard, breath hitching as he comes.

“Clint,” Phil says after a minute. “Come down here.”

“You come up here,” Clint says but he’s already sliding off the desk, landing in a heap next to Phil. At least, he means to land next to him, but Phil’s more sprawled than Clint was expecting so Clint ends up between Phil’s spread legs. 

Phil’s arms snake around him, pulling him sideways into Phil’s chest. Clint wants to protest but it’s Phil’s strong arms and Phil’s solid chest and he just folds instead, pressing his face into Phil’s neck and trying to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Phil says. He kisses Clint’s temple then says it again. Then again. A kiss then an apology then a kiss until Phil’s whispering into his mouth and Clint’s mumbling something back that even he doesn’t understand.

“Maybe I won’t punch you,” Clint finally allows. 

He drops his head onto Phil’s shoulder and shivers, burrowing deeper into Phil’s side. Phil reaches around him, picking up his discarded suit jacket and draping it over Clint’s shoulder. 

“Shucks, Phil,” Clint says, trying not to think about how nice it feels to be looked after by someone who actually knows how to do it, rather than the fumbling, awkward ways the Avengers all try to patch up each other’s hurts.

“I have a bedroom somewhere,” Phil offers, “if you’re cold?”

“Won’t that mean getting caught by your ducklings?” Clint asks, leaving his head on Phil’s shoulder.

“That isn’t an issue,” Phil says, arms tightening. “I’m not ashamed of you.”

Clint snorts. “Duh, I’m an Avenger.”

Phil laughs too but then he shakes his head, lips careful on Clint’s hairline. “I have never been ashamed of you. I have never regretted anything that happened between us. Except that I very much regret having hurt you over the last few months.”

“If you can make sentences like that, I obviously didn’t blow your mind enough,” Clint says, but Phil doesn’t laugh. Clint sighs. “I hate our fucking apartment without you.”

Phil tenses. “I can’t.” He hurries on before Clint can protest. “I’m supposed to be dead, Clint. It isn’t just a fun way to mess with the Avenger’s minds; there’s something bigger at stake.”

“What?” Clint asks. It’s not that he thought Fury was being cruel for no reason, but it still helps to know there definitely was a reason.

“I can’t tell you,” Phil says, looking sad. “I’m so sorry. I would if I could. But I swear that as soon as this mission is over, I will be straight back home. If you’ll have me.”

Clint nods. His insides are clenching up a bit with disappointment, which he tries to ignore. “So what do we do?” he asks. “I’m not okay with just sitting at home and waiting for you like a good little spouse.”

Phil turns and kisses him hard. “Trust me,” he says, “I’m pretty good at my job.”

“Sure.” That’s never been in doubt. “What if I miss you though?” He flutters his eyelashes, experimenting to see if it that feels okay, if they can head back to where they were before. 

It makes Phil smile, even if it doesn’t feel totally natural to Clint yet. “Did you miss the part where I said I wasn’t hiding you from my guys? You can come visit all the time. And I have an apartment; I’ll give you the address.”

Clint tries not to feel too relieved too quick, but it’s hard. He’s got Phil and it doesn’t look like he has to lose him again, at least not for good. 

“Okay,” he says, realising that Phil’s waiting for an answer, that Phil’s nervous. “I’m considering forgiving you.”

“That’s more than I thought I might get,” Phil says. He shifts a little, resting his back against the wall, which is when Clint realises he’s leaning a lot of weight into Phil’s chest, the same side that Loki stuck a spear through.

He sits up quickly, dragging down the neck of Phil’s undershirt even though he doesn’t want to look. There’s no mark, not even plastic surgery scarring. “How?” he asks, touching smooth, whole skin.

Phil shrugs one shoulder. “Tahiti is a magical place,” he says.

Clint forces a smile despite the weird feeling he’s getting. “You said that already,” he says, keeping it light.

“Did I?” Phil asks, unconcerned. He strokes the skin over Clint’s ribs and closes his eyes, looking content. 

“Nevermind,” says Clint. He’s not going to push. He’s going to knock down Fury’s fucking door to get some answers tomorrow, though. He elbows Phil - gently - in the side. “Gonna introduce me to your new babies?”

“Soon.” Phil tap-taps his fingers against Clint’s skin. “We need to time it perfectly, preferably for a moment when Agent Ward is drinking something hot.”

Clint laughs. Maybe Phil’s got some weird mental tic going on, but he’s still _Phil_. “He does seem like kind of a dick.” Not that Clint’s done more than share a watercooler with Ward at SHIELD HQ but he’s on Phil’s team and Clint didn’t vet him, so Clint’s automatically wary.

“He’s a good guy,” Phil says. “He just needs a sense of humour.”

“And you think suddenly being like ‘hey, here’s my surprise Avenger boyfriend!’ is going to help with that?” Clint asks.

“It can’t hurt,” Phil says, still petting Clint like Clint’s a cat. Clint doesn’t mind; he hasn’t really been touched in the past six months. “If that fails, I might put a whoopee cushion under his chair at the next team meeting.”

There’s nothing Clint can do except lean in and kiss him. “I maybe don’t really hate you,” he says, meaning _I love you so much, you dork_.

“You too,” Phil says, like he can still read Clint’s mind, like things haven’t changed too fundamentally between them. He smacks Clint’s hip. “All right, Hawkeye, on your feet. It’s time to meet the team.”

Clint levers himself up, reaching down and taking Phil’s hand, keeping hold of it after Phil’s gotten to his feet. “I’m guessing I need a shirt?”

“Eh,” Phil says, but hands him his shirt. 

“Does your team have a name?” Clint asks, while he gets dressed and Phil unapologetically ogles him. “I feel like they should have a name.”

“What like Howling Commandos Reborn?” Phil asks. “The Secret Six?”

Clint smooths down his sweatshirt. “I thought there were five of you?”

“I stole a hacker,” Phil says.

Clint laughs. “Of course you did. You love strays.”

“I resent that,” Phil says, opening the door. He catches Clint before he can head down the stairs, holding him back by his belt. “I _like_ strays,” he says. “You’re the only one I love.”

Ridiculously, Clint gets all verklempt. He ducks his head, tangles his hand with Phil’s. He’ll drop it before any of Phil’s new team see, but he’s feeling kind of possessive right about now.

“Well and Natasha,” Phil says, deadpan.

Clint laughs. “Fuck you, sir,” he says. He feels lighter than he has in a long time as Phil drags him down the stairs.

/end


End file.
